


Chain

by Antartique



Series: Senyuu. drabbles/AUs [4]
Category: Senyuu.
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, implied everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:06:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5108909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antartique/pseuds/Antartique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small things. Powerful things. Beautiful things. It is Alba's fault for being all three together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chain

**Author's Note:**

> This thing is so old and it never had a title besides 'sion no' I really don't know what to do about it here have at it.

He had always liked (loved) control. Power. Being the one who pulled the strings even if said strings were only the ones in a puppeteer’s play.

Maybe, maybe being (technically) a thousand years old did that to a person’s psyche.

(Crea had told him to get professional help. He had promptly refused and then thrown his best friend down a hole.)

He had always liked being the one in control in all his relationships, of course. With his father, it had been easy. Not so later, but at first… He had been the only child, the only friend, the only one. In the village, as well. The one who called the shots. The one who said ‘jump’ and people asked how far, the one who walked by and people bowed to his every whim.

With Crea, it was… harder. They were equals, best friends, they were one soul and two bodies. No matter what happened, Crea always followed his word, but that was because he made sense. Crea could say no. Crea would say no. Crea could deny him all the times he wanted, and he would just shrug, say something back and then go back to their routine of a pair of stupid idiots that were way too strong for their own good.

Maybe, just maybe, it had been Crea and his father the ones who had helped develop his fetish for confinement.

Not Crea, and definitely not his father, but big, important, powerful, beautiful things contained in small places or short moments were… something he couldn’t help but to love.  
(His father had once given him an spider in a bottle to take care of. It didn’t last long, but it had been the best pet he had ever had.)

He had taken to miniature replicas, back in his hero days. Small replicas of cities in glass balls, ships in bottles, castles in jewelry. He had taken them, admired them, loved them. He had taken to appreciate the scripture art written with magnifying glass like others would appreciate the great monuments, to admire small fleeting beauties and keep the memories as treasures.

He had taken to live life.

And then he had lived so, so long, so short, so nothing, life had become so dull he had forgotten how to appreciate the small things of life. Blankness did that.

He had taken to battling (himself).

He had taken to sleeping.

And thousand years had passed and he was still there and the world was worthless. There was no Crea. There was no beauty. There was nothing he had control over, not even his own life.

(Apparently, he had had children in the past thousand years of sleeping in the Dimensional Rift. He didn’t even know. His heirs were all worthless, anyways, so why bother telling them he had never been really interested in the sexual pleasures?)

Alba wasn’t any different than other people, but at least he tried. He tried to interact with him outside of their assigned roles of candidate hero and soldier. He tried to share the burden, tried to be his equal, tried to be Alba.

He didn’t want to care, but he liked small things.

He didn’t want to care, but he loved powerful things.

(And he would have loved to do so much to said small and would-be-powerful thing, so, so much, but he couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t risk losing control and losing himself and he could do anything but Rchimedes was always there in the back of his mind. So he took blades and words at the boy hero and healed the wounds that hadn’t been made by him, grooming him carefully into what could and would be.)

The first time he had gone visit Alba in his magic prison the hero had looked at him with a tired smile and his blood had run cold. He had taken a deep breath, tried a few words and then ran from the cave like the world was burning.

He loved powerful things, powerful things tied down and at his mercy and in his hands and Alba was the most powerful and he was there, smiling at him, limbs chained to the wall and a heavy collar at his neck and that stupid stripped shirt that had become so usual he didn’t know how had he been expecting anything else. He loved powerful things and Alba and he loved control and Alba and control over Alba was-

(Crea had looked at him and laughed for hours, holding his sides and then he was cooing, cooing! at him, saying ‘It will be alright, Shi-tan’ like he understood.)

The second time, Alba was sleeping looking like chains were the softest pillows ever and he had to lean on the wall for a few seconds. The collar was thinner and so were the chains but he still didn’t understand how some of them worked. There was one that disappeared into Alba’s chest right over his heart and magic was weird but not so weird, and when he tugged at it Alba’s eyes had fluttered open and he had to make up an explanation as to why was he holding him like he was a princess, I’m not a princess Sion stop already and he had laughed and pushed him away.

(Rchimedes (the Third, Ruki), was waiting outside that day and she had thrown a look at him that spoke worlds before stepping by him. He knew, she knew, they both knew, but Alba was making it so easy. So damn easy…)

He reached for the single chain link in the collar, the third visit. His index finger curled around it and he pulled, just a little bit forcefully, and Alba followed dutifully with eyes half lidded. His other hand was pinning the other’s wrist down to the rock ground, nails drawing blood, because he loved control and he loved powerful things.

It wasn’t about Alba.

It was never about Alba.

(‘It has always been about Alba,’ Crea would say months later with lips pressed against his forehead, hands combing through his hair, ‘and it will always be Alba.’)

Alba never said no.

Never denied him, no matter what he did. No matter if Alba was breaking down to tears under his onslaught of words, or couldn’t heal his own wounds because of poisonous blades, he never asked to stop. If he was gripping his arm tight enough to leave bruises, if he was screaming his name in the echoing cavern, if he was whimpering in his arms afterwards; Alba didn’t voice protests.

He wanted to believe it was because he didn’t have any.

He wanted to believe the Alba who leaned into his touches, be them rough or gentle, was being more honest than the Alba who denied everything in front of everyone else.

(‘At times, having too much power is terrible,’ Rchimedes (the Second) told him one day he had gone for tea. The man was, in a weird way, family. ‘Didn’t you ever feel that way?’ And he didn’t know what to answer.)

He loved having control over strong things, small and big things, all things. Putting them in small places, containing them and constricting until they snapped under his fingers or could depend on nothing but himself. He loved having control over his life, even when losing it for the nth time in his thousand? years.

He loved being the one who could make Alba looks so painfully desperate, so beautifully pained, so desperately beautifully.

And here he was, bleeding to his death, and Alba asked for some or other reason,

"Why?"


End file.
